


the root of the root and the bud of the bud

by spacenarwhal



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childbirth, Domestic, F/M, Post-War, Pregnancy, outdated medical practices referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 05:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: The doctors all advise bed rest, but the doctors all seem to be under the impression that women don’t give birth every day. Whoever began spreading the lie that women were the weaker sex were obviously never heavily pregnant in the middle of August in New York City.





	the root of the root and the bud of the bud

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Steggy Secret Santa Exchange for [princess-of-the-worlds ](https://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Happy holidays and a blessed New Year!

The apartment is sweltering. 

Steve cranks the air conditioning unit on full before he leaves in the morning. He presses a quick kiss to her sweat-damp forehead with one palm on her distended belly, thumb rubbing a soothing circle into the thin, stretched skin before he walks away. 

Peggy keeps her eyes closed, her breathing even, waits until she hears the front door close before heaving herself out of the bed. There’s a cup of tea on the bedside table, the only one Steve allows her these days. The man reads one article about possible negative side effects of caffeine on a fetus and suddenly he’s the warden of their kitchen. Unfortunately, for all his good intentions, the man can’t brew a proper cup of tea to save his life. 

Peggy forgoes her housecoat, too hot and uncomfortable inside her own skin to care two licks about walking out into the kitchen in nothing but the thin nightshift she’s taken to sleeping in in this heat. 

The doctors all advise bedrest, but the doctors all seem to be under the impression that women don’t give birth every day. Whoever began spreading the lie that women were the weaker sex were obviously never heavily pregnant in the middle of August in New York City. Peggy can think of a few grown men who would cry if forced to live under these conditions. Back cramps, heartburn, sore ankles, aching joints, constipation. Peggy thinks she’d prefer to battle Hydra than see through the next three weeks until her due date. There’s simply no way there’s any room left inside her for the baby to fill before she bursts. 

Peggy frowns down at the kettle, tired and sweating despite the relatively short distance between the bedroom and the kitchen, one hand pressed against the tender spot just beneath her ribcage where the baby seems content to dig deep during its nightly routine. 

She breathes deep, exhales hard and tries to push out the restlessness, the fear, the frustration that collects when she isn’t looking. It’s hard to fight off when she’s so tired, sick of the heat and of being housebound and alone while Steve is out there, doing the job. 

The kettle’s sharp whistle jars her out of her thoughts before they turn overly melancholy. Peggy wipes at the sweat on her upper lip before making her cup of tea. 

-

Peggy brews two different cups before deciding tea isn’t what she wants at all. Perhaps the milk’s gone off, she thinks, pouring the second cup down the drain. There’s a pang of remorse in her chest as she does it, remembers all too clearly those years of going without decent tea (without coffee or sugar or wheat or a good night’s sleep). It’s wasteful but the thought of drinking it makes her stomach turn somersaults. Or maybe just makes the baby turn somersaults, Peggy can’t be sure anymore. 

She pours herself a glass of water instead, waddles over to the armchair Steve hefted over to the window, piled with every pillow they could spare, situated in front of the fan Peggy picked up from the second-hand shop a few blocks over. It takes a fair bit of negotiation with her body to get comfortable in her seat, or rather as close to comfortable as she gets these days, her back aching even with the support of the pillows. Inside the baby shifts, alleviates some of the pressure on Peggy’s bladder and she sighs with relief, pats the side of her belly in thanks. 

“Thank you darling.” She says to the overwhelming mass of her belly. She can see the bump her navel has become through the sheer material of her chemise. She pokes at it lightly, marvels at it still. 

Children had not been up for discussion, their lives being what they are. There had been a passing reference here and another there, most overly inquisitive colleagues with well-meaning but condescending smiles asking Steve when Peggy was going to retire. 

Truth be told Peggy hadn’t been sure children were a possibility for them in light of the serum and Steve’s own complicated health history even prior to the experiment. She’d never been the sort of person who imagined a quiet life, even before the war. She’d wanted to be so many things, do so many things, children and a husband didn’t seem to have a place in those fantastical pictures of adventure. She’d always been sure that any man who wanted a wife and offspring would want a wife willing to remain home and see to their rearing and caretaking. She’d seen too many marriages and families that operated within the constricts of rigid social hierarchy, her own parents not completely excluded. 

The war had changed so much of the world Peggy knew before, but not enough of these types of expectations. What liberties she’d been allowed during the worst of it were everyday rescinded, the SSR apparently devoted to returning the world to its former way of doing things. She knew few expected her back at the office after the baby was born. 

(The day the doctors had been able to confirm what Peggy had suspected for months Steve had beamed so widely, so openly, eyes bright and damp as he covered her face with kisses. If Peggy thought he’d looked at her with something like reverence before, it was nothing compared to how he looked at her then, like she had single handedly hung the moon and lit the light in every individual star. Peggy had been so overwhelmed by the weight of it she’d burst into tears, smeared her makeup and ruined his handkerchief.) 

Sousa had told her over lunch a few months back how Steve had refused to let anyone clean off her desk. And as much as Peggy doesn’t need or want Steve to act as any kind of guard dog she still appreciates how much easier life is with the right partner at her side. 

-

It’s nearly noon and Peggy’s attempts at napping have been fruitless. The pain in her back continues at odd intervals and keeps her from getting comfortable, spiking whenever she’s on the brink of dropping off. The baby is uncharacteristically lively for this time of day, and Peggy rubs her palm over the great swell of her stomach like she does whenever the baby is especially rowdy. The heat is unbearable despite all of Peggy’s efforts to keep cool (the stationary fan, the air conditioning unit, the closed blinds, her fairly indecent state of undress). 

The baby kicks, hard, and Peggy jumps, sits up a little straighter and stares reproachfully down at her stomach. “Enough of that.” She chastises the baby inside, rubbing just a fraction harder.

There’s a knock on the door and Peggy groans under her breath, waits a moment to see if perhaps its Steve come home for lunch, but the knocking persists, squashing all hopes of remaining seated. “I’m coming.” She mutters under her breath, glancing down at her nightgown and frowning at the realization that she can’t very well open the door like this. It takes her a moment to walk back to the bedroom and fetch her discarded robe, sweat immediately gathering between her shoulders as soon as she’s fastened it closed. The knocking skips over a quick beat and Peggy rolls her eyes, knows before she’s even pulled the door open who is waiting on the other side. She’s half-tempted not to open it. 

“Agent Rogers, looking gorgeous as ever.” Howard grins, holding his arms out as though to embrace her. He doesn’t though, which is lucky for him since Peggy shudders to think of accepting a hug in this heat.

“I look like the board side of barn but thank you Howard.” She motions for him to come in. She smiles when she notices Mr. Jarvis at Howard’s back. “Wonderful seeing you again Mr. Jarvis.”

She smooths a hand over her frizzy hair, wishes she’d done a bit more if only out of respect for Edwin. He nods politely, “Likewise Agent Rogers.”

She doesn’t feel like much of an agent at the moment, but its nice to hear it even if she’s sure Howard uses it mostly as a joke these days. “Steve’s still at work at the moment—”

Howard waves a hand, “Yeah, I know. Fellow’s got a full docket for the next few days from what I’m hearing. Good thing I’m here to talk to the brains of the operation. Fancy a working lunch?” He motions for Edwin to step forward and motions at the table. Mr. Jarvis begins by setting down a basket and then produces plates, cutlery, and what looks like an entire lunch service. 

“Howard—this is—really—we do have plates you know?” Too many plates really. An entire fine china set given to them as a wedding present. Howard would know. He gave it to them. 

Howard shrugs. “Take a seat Peggy, put your feet up. He pulls a chair out at the dining table and helps her sit. The twinge in her belly is growing into a set, aching pulse. Peggy shifts, frowns when nothing she does lessens it. “In all seriousness I’ve got something to discuss with you. If you’re not too tired or—” He frowns, looks vaguely uncomfortable. Peggy grins, places her hand atop her belly. “Too pregnant?”

Howard strokes at his mustache. “Never said that.” He clears his throat. Over his shoulder Mr. Jarvis looks amused. Peggy winks at him. Howard clears his throat again, more forcibly. “How’s that going?”

Peggy laughs, feeling momentarily ridiculous. She’s sitting at her dining room table in her dressing gown, sweating and giant, being waited on by Howard Stark and his personal butler. 

“It’s going fin—”

The pulsing goes suddenly sharp, like the stab of a bayonet deep inside her pelvis. It catches her so off guard that Peggy can’t do anything to hold back the surprised gasp of pain that leaves her mouth. 

“Whoa—Peg what was that?”

“Nothing—” she says, trying to shake it off. But it happens again, just as sharp, as sudden and there’s a pressure sitting on her hips she hasn’t felt before. 

She grips the arm of her chair and all at once it disappears, replaced by a sudden wet warmth on the seat beneath her. Oh. Peggy blinks. “Fuck.” She hisses, staring down at her lap in confusion and betrayal. 

“Agent Rogers?” Edwin asks, sounding genuinely concerned. 

“Howard,” Peggy starts, taking Edwin’s hand so that she can ease herself to her feet. Her heart races in her throat and she reminds herself that she’s survived close combat, she can do this now. She squeezes Mr. Jarvis’ hand without meaning to. He lets her do it without complaint. “Please tell me you brought your car.”

-

Steve is waiting for them at the hospital when they arrive, rushes forward and wraps Peggy up tight. He’s left his suit jacket somewhere else, his shift sleeves rolled up and his tie askew, and Peggy grips his forearms so hard her knuckles turn white. “Peggy, are you alright? How—”

“Howard got us lost.” She says teasingly. At her back, Howard sputters indignantly. “How was I supposed to know that 56th was under construction?” 

Steve smiles, nervousness evident around his eyes, “It’s New York Howard, something’s always under construction.”

-

“We don’t even have a name yet.” Steve blurts out, helping Peggy into a paper-thin hospital gown. “I thought we had more time left, Peg. I thought—” The odd calm that settled inside her back at the apartment where she delegated tasks and made sure to lock the door behind them is thinning, but there’s still enough of it left over for Peggy to reach for Steve’s face and pull him down until she can kiss his cheek.

“We’re out of time now Captain. ‘Fraid there’s no delaying this any longer.”

Steve lets out a stuttering breath. “How are you not afraid?”

She strokes his hair, moves it behind his ear. The pulsing is intensifying again but it’s not the pain that frightens her right now. It’s everything that comes after. The baby inside her and Steve in front her. The desk waiting empty at an office and the life they might have once they leave this bare white room.

“Me? I’m terrified right now.”

Steve smooths some of her hair out of her face with a wiry grin. “Oh good. I thought it was just me.”

-

The whole ordeal is over and done with fairly quickly despite all the doctor’s warnings that first babies are usually long and slow in coming. Peggy pointblank refuses to be drugged for the birth, threatens to break the fingers of anyone who tries to sedate her or tie her down. Perhaps she’s just wild-eyed enough for anyone with a scrap of self-preservation instinct to be wary. Or perhaps it has something to do with her husband standing guard at her bedside in flagrant defiance of polite conventions. Or maybe, if hospital gossip is to be believed, it has something to do with Howard Stark passing out cigars and hundred dollar bills to anyone who comes within half a foot of him out in the waiting room. 

All in all, the baby is delivered into the waiting hands of rather disapproving medics, who chide and tsk, seemingly scandalized by the proceedings despite the fact that they are trained medical professionals who have done this countless times before. Surely Peggy thinks seconds before another contraction wracks her body and wipes all other thoughts from her mind, they’ve seen worse than a husband brave enough to remain at his wife’s bedside in the delivery room.

For all her strong arming, Peggy is less successful when she asks to hold the baby before he’s taken away to be cleaned, and the nurses bluntly refuse Steve the right to hold the baby, still red and half-swaddled in a towel, for fear of contaminants. 

Instead the medics whisk the baby away before Peggy’s gotten more than a glimpse of dark hair and red-purple skin and tiny hands. Such impossibly tiny hands. The baby’s cries echo as they’re taken away and Peggy cries with them, great heaving sobs the likes of which she’s never cried before, not even during the worst of the labor pains. She can’t even explain it to Steve, who looks just as lost, cast adrift somewhere between disbelief and jubilance.

“It’s a boy, Peg.” Steve keeps repeating, one hand still clasping hers tight. (“I’m right here, Peggy.” Steve had offered her after planting himself at her side, a human shield from all the rest of the room, “I’m not going anywhere.”) She pulls on their joined hands until Steve relents, until he perches on the narrow edge of the hospital bed, hip to hip. He presses his face to the top of her head, drops a kiss to the crown of her head. His words are muffled against her unruly hair, and he squeezes her aching fingers, his hands wide and warm and safe, “It’s a boy. We’ve got a boy Peggy.”

Peggy nods wordlessly, tries to collect herself though she finds she can’t, can’t even begin to piece together all the bits of herself that have gone scattered in the last few hours, in the last nine months, in the last six years. She doesn’t know that she ever will again. 

-

His nose is small and his eyelids are so thin she imagines she can count the blood vessels laced just under the surface of the skin. She marvels at each individual eyelash and the turn of his mouth and curl of his toes under the blanket the nurses wrapped him in. “He’s perfect.” Steve whispers, staring at him and staring at Peggy as though he needs her to confirm what he’s just said. His blue eyes are wide and awestruck, and Peggy reach out a tired hand to push the hair off his brow. He leans into her palm and kisses the side of her wrist. 

(“I was pretty sick as a kid.” He said a hundred times, and Peggy knows, she’s read the file, knows that Steve’s health was never promising before the serum, just like she knows he worries about how the serum could potentially affect any offspring. “Steve, I promise the day he starts bench pressing a car, we’ll send him off to Colonel Philips for training.” She teased once, hoping to iron out the worry lines that pinched between his brows. She hadn’t been as successful as she would have liked.)

In her arms their son is oddly lightweight compared to the weight of him beneath her heart all these months. Peggy studies the baby in her arms and then looks at Steve, searches their faces for resemblance. She loves them both so much she wants to carry the image of them behind her eyelids forever.

“Yes darling, he’s perfect.”

-

“You two ever settle on a name for the kid?” Howard asks. He’s been away for almost three weeks now, off in California last Peggy heard, and it’s incredible, how much James has grown in such a short time.

“Yes, as I’m sure you well know.” Peggy responds primly, accepting the cup of tea Howard hands her. In the kitchen Steve is wearing James in a sling draped over his shoulder and chest while he warms up the food Ana Jarvis sent over with Howard. One more gift atop the mountain of gifts bestowed on them by generous friends. 

“Just wanted to make sure I’ve got the right name monogrammed on to the smoking jacket.” Howard says lightly, and Peggy kicks him in the knee. 

“He’s not an accessory for you to tote around at one of your clubs.”

Howard laughs. In the kitchen Steve starts talking to James, explaining what he’s doing. Steve’s taken to fatherhood like a fish to water, astounded by nearly every new thing James does. Peggy can’t blame him. It’s all very astonishing.

“You know we never did get to have that lunch meeting.” Howard says, looking down at the tea cup in his own hand. 

Peggy glances over Howard’s shoulder towards the kitchen, watches Steve rub at James back through the material of the sling. He’s taken time from the office to spend it home with them but it can’t last much longer. The SSR is not known for their patience. It grants them some liberties because of who Steve is and what he’s done but soon or later duty will call for him again and Steve’s never been the sort of man not to answer. Peggy frowns, worries about James, imagines what it would be like to go without either Steve or James in her life now that she has them both. Her grandfather used to say that life was not about having everything one wanted and Peggy’s always agreed. The war taught her that, taught her how to go without desires and focus on the necessities for survival. That’s what her family is to her now and it isn’t a weakness, it feels like a new well of strength previously unknown to her, a new fire that she can draw on to power her to new heights. There’s nothing Peggy won’t do to ensure the world is the place they both deserve and no one who can stop her from doing it.

When she looks back at Howard he’s studying her face carefully. “How do you feel about California, Agent Rogers?”

-

The End

**Author's Note:**

> As always I fell down the rabbit hole of research writing this and as always, I'm mystified by some of the shit people got up in the 1940s/1950s. 
> 
> Title from the poem _i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)_ by e.e. cummings


End file.
